


Up the Ante

by DenaCeleste, Twisted_Mind



Series: Steter Porn Olympics [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Begging, Come Eating, Come as Lube, Coming In Pants, Established Relationship, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Predicament Bondage, Prostate Massage, Wolfed Out Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds that he likes provoking Peter. So it becomes a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up the Ante

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Random Texts with Mr. Sexy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913500) by [DenaCeleste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste). 



> So, the lovely DenaCeleste and I started trading NSFW ideas while talking about _Random Texts with Mr. Sexy_ , and before we knew it--BAM! Comment-porn. Which she (wonderful soul that she is), has allowed to be posted for everyone's viewing pleasure. 
> 
> DenaCeleste, it was a joy to do this with you. *blows kisses* Thanks also go to my ever-enabling BelleAmante for the beta job, and telling me (once again) to post The Thing.  
> ~Twist

 

 

They don’t discuss it or anything. It just sort of . . . happens. And then it becomes a game.

It starts one night when, after some very satisfying mutual hand-jobs, Stiles sees it. There’s a strand of come dripping from the tip of Peter's claw, because he lost control a little bit as he came. Now that he’s seen it, Stiles can’t help himself—he leans over and licks the claw clean, his eyes locked on Peter's the whole time. Peter’s eyes flare.

After that, Stiles finds that he likes provoking Peter. He likes it when he makes the older man lose it a little and shred the sheets, or flash supernaturally-bright eyes at him while they’re fucking. It’s so much more fun because Peter fights so hard not to wolf out, not wanting to hurt him.

Stiles’s next brilliant idea comes to him when they’re making out on the couch like teenagers. Peter’s teeth start to sharpen, and instead of letting him pull away, Stiles scrapes the tip of his tongue across it. Peter hisses, and his fangs drop a little. Maybe only a fraction of an inch. It’s enough.

Stiles rocks back, grinding his ass deliberately against Peter’s erection. When Peter gasps, he dives inside—and promptly starts laving the deadly fangs that could so easily slice his lips open. There’s something insanely sexy about tracing his tongue over something that could be used to murder him.

He goes at it, rocking frantically in Peter’s lap. He nicks his tongue, and the tang of copper joins their kiss. Peter groans. Stiles keeps at it, stroking lovingly at the vicious eyeteeth, but it isn’t until he traces over where they disappear into the gums that Peter loses it. Gripping Stiles by the hips, he rocks up, and comes—still in his jeans, his mouth full of fangs and on the verge of a full beta-shift.

Of course, it’s after that particular incident—and the maybe-gloating that followed—that Peter decides to get his own back.

It starts out like a lot of their sexy times do, with Peter stripping Stiles and telling him to lie on their bed, hands on the headboard and legs apart. Stiles complies eagerly, thinking he knows where this going.

“Keep them there,” Peter rumbles. “Your hands move, and I stop.”

Stiles nods. They’ve played this game before, and it makes him come so hard he nearly blacks out every time.

Peter holds himself over Stiles then, and begins to lap softly at his nipples. Stiles squirms, but holds the headboard. It feels good, but it’s too light. It’s not enough.

Of course, forty-five minutes later, he’s revised his opinion entirely.

“Peter—ah!—no, stop, I can’t.” Peter pays him no mind, continuing to lick leisurely at nipples that have gone long past ‘pebbled and sensitive’ and could more accurately be called ‘raw’.

“Beg me,” Peter says suddenly. So suddenly that Stiles doesn’t quite understand his meaning. His confusion must be obvious, because Peter explains. “If you want me to leave your delicious little tits alone, beg me. A simple ‘please’ is all it’ll take for me to leave them for your cock.” The way he’s hovering over Stiles is making so much more sense now. “But if you don’t,” he pauses to suck harshly at the nipple under his lips, “I’ll keep eating these for _hours_.”

Stiles presses his lips together and glares. He can’t make an intimidating picture, desperate and flushed and sweat-slick, but it’s the principle of the thing. So Peter makes good on his word.

He wolfs out just a bit, just enough for his teeth to be sharper, for his claws to peek out. He scratches delicately down Stiles's ribs as he teases achy, overworked nipples with his tongue before closing those slightly-sharper-than-human teeth around one nub. He relishes how Stiles goes still, holding his breath, waiting to see what comes next. Through it all, Stiles is making noise—they don’t count as real words, because not even he knows what he’s crying out for—and it's driving Peter to distraction

But Peter hovers carefully, refusing to let Stiles find relief—from his own hand, or against Peter’s body—forcing him to take what Peter gives him, and nothing more. Peter listens to the pounding of Stiles's heart as he scrapes sharp teeth against one of those poor tortured nubs and sucks. He can nearly _taste_ the blood rushing under the surface of the skin, pooling in what will be spectacular bruises tomorrow.

Stiles refuses to beg—he’ll chew his lips raw first—even though he knows Peter will give him what he asks for as soon as breaks and _asks_ for it. He jerks his hips up, trying to get any a little bit of friction—at this point, it won’t take much—but Peter moves away too fast. Damn werewolves, with their amped up everything. Stiles flops back, weak but definitely _not_ defeated. He won’t give in.

But Peter _knows_ Stiles, knows how stubborn he is, knows he’ll hold off just to make a point. Which is why Peter cheats: he slithers up Stiles's body—licking that flushed throat as he passes—so he can whisper in Stiles's ear. So _he_ can beg.

"You smell so good right now. I want to make you come. Tell me I can make you come, baby."

“Please,” Stiles chokes. He didn’t mean to, and he doesn’t stop at one, but he can’t care about his pride right now, because Peter is touching his dick.

Stiles pants, arching into Peter's grip. " _Peter_ —yes, yes, oh God, yes." He's so on edge that it doesn't take more than three strokes for him to decorate his stomach with pearly splashes of come.

His brain coming back online, Stiles decides to turn the tables. He unclenches his hands from the headboard and grasps Peter's cock, which is already hard and red and slick at the tip. Peter moans, tipping his head back.

Stiles tsks and shakes his head. "You cheated, Peter. That was against the rules." The words are breathy, teasing, and Stiles grins at his lover as he loosens his grip, lets every pull around Peter's dick grow lighter until he’s just ghosting his hand over it in barely-there touches.

"Is that so?" Peter bares his teeth as Stiles hums an affirmative, eyes glowing bright in the dark of their room. "And what are you going to do about it, darling?"

Stiles smirks. "This," he says, letting go of Peter's cock entirely. He slicks his hand with his own come before moving it downwards, fingertips dragging teasingly over Peter's balls and settling behind them. He presses upwards, and Peter's eyes flare blue as he fights not to come when Stiles not only pushes two fingers inside him, but immediately locates and begins working his prostate over in firm pulses.

Stiles pulls Peter down to him, come slicking the way for Peter to grind against his belly as he circles his fingers over that spot relentlessly until Peter is breathless and gasping, his usual grace abandoning him in front of Stiles.

When Peter clenches around his fingers, Stiles ups the ante, kneading harder and faster until Peter really wolfs out, claws slicing the pillows, throat bared. Stiles can’t resist—he leans up and closes his teeth around the thick tendon straining in Peter’s neck, and that’s it. When Peter comes, he roars, the sound reverberating and making the walls shake.

 


End file.
